


The Roar of Mice

by LullabyKnell



Series: Stormtrooper Stories [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Death, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Original Character Death(s), POV Original Character, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rebellion, Revolution, Stormtrooper Culture, Stormtroopers are people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyKnell/pseuds/LullabyKnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There's a sickness among the Stormtrooper ranks</em>
</p><p> <em>First, it makes you lose your mind; then it leads you to your death, one way or another.</em></p><p> <em>It can strike at any moment, from apparently anywhere, and there isn't any single one of them who's safe.</em></p><p>Revolution has a price and it doesn't care who pays it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Roar of Mice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Story of Finn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5594782) by [LullabyKnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyKnell/pseuds/LullabyKnell). 



> I'm still a complete sap, it's just... I have a tendency to dabble in the more angsty stuff sometimes too. This is going to be different to The Story of Finn. It has slightly different themes and another side of defection - not everyone is good at deconstructing events from stories or has a company of comrades willing to drop everything at a moment's notice. Some people heard a very different story and different lessons. 
> 
> But there's still going to be fluff, definitely, and the ending with ultimately be happy. It may just get a little dark before the dawn on this one. Cazz is definitely not Doublo. I think I described him as a lonely sweetheart in a bad situation, and while that's true, it leaves out a lot and forgets to mention that he's kind of an asshole with a truckload of issues too. 
> 
> As far as my plans go, you don't need to read The Story of Finn to follow this. There may be some references to The Story of Finn, but not enough to confuse people, I think. But if you haven't read Part 1 of this series, then seriously, stop and go back to read The Story of Finn. Why haven't you read that yet? Go and do it.

“Off to join the Resistance, Cazz?”

Cazz looks up from his Pad at the burly Stormtrooper blocking his way. “Oneshot,” he greets flatly, unable to even pretend he's surprised. “I see you've succeeded in your exceeding ambitious lifetime goal of becoming a wall. The cadet captain must be so proud of you for reaching so high above your preliminary assessments.”

His supposed _comrade_ 's expression can't be observed because of his helmet, and Cazz inwardly mourns the loss of not being able to enjoy it. He consoles himself with viciously doubting that Oneshot will realize much beyond the presence of an insult, so there probably isn't very much expression to enjoy anyway. Besides, Oneshot is hardly nice to look at.

Cazz vaguely misses his own clunky helmet though. Keeping his face blank on his own can be hard sometimes, and the white bucket helped hide his expressions so well. It feels likely that he'll eventually lose his teeth if people can see his face and more easily punch it.

Still, Cazz might readily give up a tooth or two to see Oneshot's idiotic expression at the moment.

Even behind all that armor, the other man is practically radiating anger. The temperature of his monochrome mood – a mix of rage and frustration – is steadily climbing like as his less-than-average processing abilities go about fully deconstructing Cazz's words.

Behind his best blank face, Cazz revels in the anger and damns his poor teeth to hell.

With the shit they ate, it wasn't like he'd need the things, after all.

Oneshot's feeble compiling abilities are obviously unable to come up with an adequate response in an amount of time that isn't pathetically embarrassing, so Cazz snorts derisively and forcefully brushes past the other Trooper. And by 'forcefully brushes', he means he knocks into Oneshot hard enough that he definitely bruises himself, while further insulting the other man by pretending to be focused entirely on the Pad in his hand.

It's objectively hardly intelligent of a maintenance worker, even one who used to be a battlefield mechanic, to treat an experienced gunner soldier like this, but they both know the limits of and times and places for their encounters. No one else is coming through this deserted section of corridor for at least an hour, and that's only if someone spontaneously decides to emulate Cazz and take the very inefficient long way to their next task.

Besides, Cazz has never actually claimed to be intelligent. He may have made a few comments, sometimes inwardly and sometimes not, on his obvious superiority in thinking abilities and processing power in comparison to some of the idiots around, but the semantics show that he's never actually claimed to be intelligent. Smarter, but not intelligent.

Cazz likes semantics.

Oneshot's rage climbs further in the most incredible way at Cazz's apparent brush-off.

“You're a little shit, Cazz,” he says lowly, as though Cazz didn't already know that and hasn't heard that line one-hundred-and-six times exactly. “You should have been dismissed – as a cadet – no amount of reconditioning is going to fix your fucked up head.”

“Fascinating assessment,” Cazz notes as he walks away. “I look forward to seeing your sources.”

“You should have gone with your sick buddy and every knows it,” Oneshot spits after him.

Cazz pauses, then he spins on his heel to face his supposed comrade. Oneshot straightens as though he knows what's coming. He definitely does, because Cazz's triggers aren't exactly secret among their base, as much as the commanders try to quash and quarantine these days. And besides that, this is hardly the first time they've done this: Cazz trading wits while Oneshot offers something in return that could not even generously be termed as such.

“You know what?” Cazz asks brightly, just to throw the other man off.

It clearly works, because Oneshot's wary confusion is palpable even through the helmet. The other man may be bigger, stronger, and better trained, but Cazz is still a wily fucker usually armed with wrenches and ratchets and other fun stuff. Oneshot has seen Cazz's creativity firsthand enough times to be cautious of apparent mood swings.

“...What?” Oneshot asks, when it becomes clear that Cazz is actually waiting for an answer.

Cazz drops his Pad; it clatters to the floor of the empty hallway. There are no other Stormtroopers or any commanders to hear it, whereupon they'd both be immediately sent for reconditioning on the basis of uncivilized, unprofessional, unapproved conduct. If they didn't get diagnosed and dismissed. No one is here to see Cazz put down his toolbox, step smartly forward, and lean into Oneshot's space.

“Damn my teeth,” Cazz informs him cheerfully.

“...What?” Oneshot repeats.

But Cazz is already swinging an answer in the form of a fist at his helmet.

 

There was another man the other day.

He was an old, veteran wardog, with a gruff bark and hard bite, who had been on the battlefield and in the middle of the fight for as long as anyone could remember. A tough, experienced Stormtrooper and a sharp squad leader. He was frequently used as an example of exactly the sort of soldier the Order wished it turned out every time: skilled, loyal, cooperative, and unquestioning.

Apparently, he was really no such thing. He had been secretly planning to leave, to defect, to run, and his only mistake was trying to take his puppies with him.

The subordinate soldiers listened to their commander speak just a little too quickly, heard his voice echo just a little too excitedly, and felt his words sit just a little too wrongly. When the commander had taken off his helmet, the soldiers realized that the famous wardog had caught the sickness and was deeply in its thrall – his eyes gleamed just a little too brightly.

Not enough for the sickness to take hold in the soldiers, but just enough for one terrified puppy to raise her blaster and kill her commander where the sick man stood. Self-defense; no warning.

Upon reporting the incident, the soldiers were all sent off for reconditioning, just in case any traces of the sickness remained; the wardog's body was cleaned up by tired sanitation workers; and the puppy was also sent off to reconditioning with the rest of her litter. Noncompliance with Order regulations is unacceptable, but she was not punished as she should have been for taking his dismissal into her own hands instead of reporting in to the Order.

It's no real infraction after all, some workers told each other wearily, to kill a sick dog.

 

Cazz stays sprawled on the floor even after Oneshot walks off to go whatever it is the man does now – when he's not trying to impersonate a wall, repeating the regular things, or trying to knock Cazz's teeth out. Cazz's Pad and toolbox are waiting beside him, as patient as always, and he doesn't need either of them to know that he's twenty minutes late for his schedule repair. Cazz is excellent at keeping track of time, and he can almost feel his lateness, though he doesn't give a single shit about it.

He does, however, exceedingly generously and very vaguely hope that Oneshot's less-than-average intelligence hasn't led the soldier to have skipped out on something significant. But only because it would be embarrassing end for even an idiot like Oneshot, especially on Cazz's behalf since he just got his ass thoroughly kicked by the man _again._ And also because if Oneshot gets caught, there's no chance that the man won't try to drag Cazz down with him.

Cazz sighs and stares unseeingly up at the gray ceiling.

No one comes to pick him up from the floor, and Cazz doesn't expect anyone to. Though he's grounded to this hellish base indefinitely, he's hardly popular in it, by his own choice as well as his circumstances. He avoids people and people avoid him. He has no squadron, no team, no real comrades or coworkers, no acquaintances of any kind, and therefore no one coming to haul him to his feet. Or even, more realistically, to kick him when he's down.

If a commander sees him now, it'll be straight back to reconditioning, if he isn't outright dismissed this time around. With things as they are now and seemingly getting worse by the day, he might just be shot where he is if he doesn't pull his aching bones and armor off the floor.

But he's not really worried about that, and he's fine with the floor, content to stay where he is. The floor is regulations-level clean and debatably comfortable, especially without armor. This particular hallway is quiet, empty, and scarcely used – just how Cazz likes them.

If only everywhere could be like this ugly gray hallway.

There's something about these places that leeches the tension out of Cazz, and makes it easier to go about his tasks. There are no barked orders or stomping boots here, or even really the memory of them. No people, no real sign of them. No soldiers or pilots or commanders or guards come through this hallway, only people looking to take the least populated, cleanest, and safest routes possible (like only him), people looking to pick a fight (like only Oneshot), or sanitation droids busy at work (like Mouse and her herd).

Here, at least, there's no constant strain of crowds of people constantly straining.

There are no soldiers drowning with unnatural need for something they can't possible name, straining towards fight or flight depending on the strain they've caught. There are no pilots brimming with inexplicable anxiety and indignation, itching with the same strains, but more capable of breaking out and causing an outbreak. There are no guards watching carefully and listening cautiously, still as statues under the Order's statutes, burning on the inside or terrified of being next. There are no commanders staring fearfully and glaring suspiciously, searching for any signs of the incomprehensible sickness that's running through the ranks.

Cazz sighs again and rests a bruised arm over his eyes. People are awful. It's just so unbearably tiresome, so pointlessly exhausting, and he almost wants to be dismissed from the terror and idiocy so desperately that sometimes he thinks he'd just like to be dismissed.

He aches, and the dull pain was there long before Oneshot physically added to it.

He could say that it started two weeks ago, when, despite all his best efforts to avoid people, he still overheard three sanitation workers – basically cadets by the sheer youth in their voices – discussing lies and rumors that would see them instantly dismissed. The madness in their voices was terrifying, infectious, and it was only more terrifying when it saw to their dismissal before the week was out.

Or, he could say that it started a month ago, when he had to rewire several panels of wall after a sick pair of foot soldiers tried to fly a ship for the first time and failed spectacularly. With some help in the failure from the hanger guards, of course. Cazz would say that the pair had failed explosively, but even his stomach roiled at that phrasing after having to fix that section of hanger, finding several pieces that the sanitation crew had managed to miss despite their thoroughness.

He could even say that it started when he came back from reconditioning and no one would come even remotely near him – not that he wanted any of them anywhere near him – like he was _sick._ Their stares and whispers followed him wherever he went, recalling everything the reconditioning tried to make him forget and made his heart shiver. Cazz didn't give a shit about what they thought, nor had he really been capable of giving a shit back then, but when one of them finally came up to him only to secretly ask him about the last thing he wanted to relive... he thought he'd be sick.

People are awful, dangerous, and will probably see him dead one day.

But Cazz knows that the ache made its place deep in his chest before all that, because of a man who's long gone and far away now. Just as Cazz knows that the ache is never going away, because Sizi left and joined that sick Resistance, and the man is never coming back to him.

And no one is coming to pull Cazz off the floor, so he yanks his aching bones up himself.

He's had worse.

 

There was another woman the other day.

She was an older Stormtrooper, who'd been an officer bodyguard ever since she stopped being a cadet, part of an entourage with eleven other Stormtroopers from the same class. People remember her as friendly and encouraging, a seamless pillar of an efficient team, another familiar face in a crowd of good company. Her fellow guards liked her, for all the personality she never managed to lose.

Apparently, after successfully protecting their charges from a Resistance attack, she changed. She got very quiet and was suddenly prone to getting lost in her thoughts, even mid-word. It made all her fellows very uneasy and uncertain. After all, when would they have seen a person grow smaller like that? Change in size and shape without the appearance of it? And that _look_ in her eyes... it was like someone else had slithered underneath her skin and taken her place.

It wasn't long before the woman and all her fellows were dead, along with their charges. No one knows how and no one knows why, because the files are classified and no one knows what to make of the wrecked escort ship that they drag back to the hanger.

A separate, specialized team takes care of the bodies this time. Well actually, it's only a rumor that there were any bodies to be found on that wrecked ship. The only thing that the regular sanitation and maintenance workers find is a Stormtrooper helmet in pieces, cracked down the middle.

None of the wild theories as to how it happened that rise up manage to ring true. It's still in the early days of the sickness, so it almost becomes a riddle, a puzzle, a joke to wonder what took place. It's an especially daring soldier that first poses the not-question to his terrified friend; why did the sick officer walk onto a spaceship with eleven other guards and three priority charges?

The answer seems obvious in hindsight: to get to the other side.

 

The door to the Nutrition Center slides open with its usual squeak, opening on the familiar noises of various machines whirring away that almost soothe Cazz's aches. But he tenses instead, when he notices the curious, unfamiliar sounds of an on-shift pair of workers who are... sort of at work.

They're not at work at all, actually. They're lounging on top of a couple supply crates, and one of them even has their feet kicked up onto a pipeline while they talk at the other. Most daringly of all, neither one of them is wearing their helmet. Their Stormtrooper buckets have been discarded, dropped side by side onto the floor, like they tried to keep them in easy reach and forgot about them.

And they're young, so young that Cazz wants to tell these cadets to get themselves back to basic training immediately. They haven't even noticed him standing in their squeaky door. Missing the squeak is understandable because of the whir of the machines, but Cazz still doesn't get it because he's always noticed when someone is approaching or walks into a room.

The chatty one with their feet up is very dark-skinned and has a bright grin, while the quiet one has soft, slanted eyes and skin bordering on green. The latter is an inhuman then. Huh, they usually don't take off their helmets outside of sleeping.

Cazz doesn't even bother to try and work out their sexes, because he doesn't even enough of a shit to try and it doesn't matter anyway.

Cazz doesn't feel like approaching them or speaking, so he knocks his Pad as loudly as he can against the door frame to announce his arrival. The chatty one is startled enough to make a squeaky shriek and fall onto the floor, which is kind of hilarious, but the greenish one just freezes, which is far less amusing, especially by how fearful they look as they both scramble to get their helmets back on.

Laziness is entirely unacceptable and inhumans are generally reviled, but Cazz doesn't give a shit about whatever the hell these two were doing. Now that he's caught them flaunting regulations, he has an edge if they try to report him or start something. He doesn't care about a few abnormal traits.

Some people even think inhumans are the source of the sickness, but Cazz thinks those people are idiots. He checked into that and it's stupidly wrong, even if inhumans seem to be more vulnerable to it.

Cazz waits for the nutrition workers to recover themselves and stand to attention for him, and then keeps waiting through their nervousness and anxiety, as well as their bewilderment as they take in his disheveled maintenance uniform. Then he still keeps waiting because he wants to encourage interaction as little as possible; he hates introductions and interactions require them sooner or later.

“Are you the maintenance worker?” Chatty asks finally.

 _No,_ Cazz wants to respond, just to see how they'll react, but he doesn't because he doesn't need to get reported again. After Oneshot, he shouldn't push his luck by trying to start something with strangers. That they weren't wearing their helmets won't be much against some of the things Cazz might do, especially with his record.

Instead of speaking, he waves his Pad over his maintenance uniform. Then he stares blankly back at them while the chatty one flushes with embarrassment behind their helmet.

“...You're thirty-seven minutes late,” Greeny says disbelievingly.

 _Negative forty minutes early,_ Cazz almost quips. The smartass response is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites down on it. These are the wrong people, wrong place, and wrong time entirely, and he really doesn't need to get reported again or his commander might actually blow a fuse.

He doesn't need to give them any edge on him.

So Cazz doesn't answer verbally, he just nods and walks over to the only machine that feels distinctly out of place and isn't whirring away. He sets his toolbox down to the broken filter and runs his eyes over it, pointedly ignoring the pair of workers staring at him. It doesn't take long before they give up on him and get back to work (or at least pretending to work), even though they're still a little curious.

Cazz puts his full attention towards figuring out what's wrong with the filtration machine. He didn't bother to read the report on what was wrong with it – he never does; it's not like they say much beyond 'doesn't work and makes strange noise instead of working' anyway – because he wants to see if he can find and fix the problem entirely on his own. He already knows he can. It's just a matter of how fast he can manage it this time.

“Alright, beautiful,” Cazz murmurs to the machine under his breath, “tell me your worries.”

Cazz might avoid people as much as he possibly can, but he likes machines. He always has, and he likes them a lot. Machines make sense; machines work on rules; machines are predictable and practical; machines can be taken apart and put back together without any parts missing. There are set behaviors and fixed values, and lots of other really good reasons to like machines before people.

Droids and machines don't have big worries, only little worries like not being able to clean a stretch of wall or needing a new part to complete their task. Droid and machines don't whisper and itch and strain, constantly afraid or going mad or in quiet pain. They feel things, of course – it's obvious just watching them that they do and Cazz doesn't doubt it for a second – but they're not loud about it.

Machines just buzz and whir and mind their own muted business. They're content when they're functional, and openly discontent when they're not. They don't stay silent and stare while actually screaming. They just hum and tick and beep, and don't worry at all about reconditioning or dismissal or a sickness without cure. They're not waiting anxiously for whatever is out there that won't stop advancing to finally attack.

They might need to be fixed and behave a little oddly sometimes, but they don't really get _sick_ sick.

Cazz is the best at figuring out what their little worries are and fixing their tiny, not-really sicknesses. He just has a knack for figuring out what's ailing them. He pokes and prods and finds their aches, or whatever it is that machines have, and follows them back to the source to fix whatever's hurting them.

It's a bit more technical than that, but it's simultaneously a lot less than everyone else seems to believe. However it really works, which Cazz isn't too interested in figuring out, it's made him an almost indispensable maintenance worker.

'Almost' because no one is indispensable here.

But Cazz is good – the best – at what he's been demoted to, which is another reason why the thirty-seven minutes late thing doesn't bother him. He'll have this filter fixed in a third of the time it might take someone else, if not less.

He was actually sort of hoping that any workers would have finished their assigned shift here by now, but apparently either the schedules have changed again or they're hanging around anyway. He'll just have to deal with their vaguely grating presence in the back of his head and hope that they don't make any attempts at interaction or try to start something.

“But we can pretend it's just you and me,” Cazz murmurs to the machine, “leave the idiots out of it.”

 

There was another young man the other day.

He was a faceless foot soldier, with inhuman heritage giving him a bit more hair than the average person and a beady sort of eyes. Because he was also shifty and on the scrawnier side, most people associated him with a rat of some kind or another, and it even made it into his nickname. He wasn't particularly liked or disliked or excluded, but he never really seemed to fit either.

Apparently, because of something no one could understand, he started getting twitchier and twitchier as time went on. He jumped and spun at every sudden sound and movement, like every one of them was an poisonous touch. His hands hovered above his blaster for no reason, like there was something waiting to attack him around every corner. His eyes, when he rarely removed his helmet, were wild and scared, like there were terrifying things all around that only he could see. It was like he was being pulled apart, until one day he snapped.

The end result was nine soldiers dead, him included. Three were shot in the back, two in the side, two in the chest, and one in the head. Of the guards who called the incident in, there was only one shot recorded on all of their blasters; and of the blasters they collected from the fallen soldiers, there was only one with any shots recorded. Eight for the Ratman.

The commanders are not amused, and their orders show it as they attempt to quash and quarantine an invincible sickness. But whatever they do, they can't stop the whispers that spread from Trooper to Trooper: there's a sickness among the Stormtrooper ranks.

First, it makes you lose your mind; then it leads you to your death, one way or another.

It can strike at any moment, from apparently anywhere, and there isn't any single one of them who's safe.

Sick dogs first, then sick rats. What next?

Who next?

 

Cazz doesn't beat any records when he switches on the filter and it starts humming happily, grateful to be functional again, but he's still left all his competition in the dust again. Even forty minutes late and without reading any report, he's the best, and it's a small comfort. He'll probably never see a battlefield again, but he's not going to let himself be outdone as a maintenance worker.

He starts packing up his toolbox, mentally composing the fill-in-the-blanks, rearrange-the-prewritten-sentences report he'll have to make for Reader. It shouldn't take long, especially since he's worked on this filter's sibling (sitting and whirring right next to it) before. If he changes some numbers, he could probably hand in the exact same report. Reader is enough of an idiot not to notice.

Cazz tenses when the almost-cadets behind him take notice of him packing up. They've been here all along, but have left him to work and Cazz has been able to push them out of his mind. Now that he's finished, he can feel their curiosity spiking up again, hear them whispering and moving closer. He doesn't know what he could have possibly done to encourage them in the past while, but he already regrets it deeply and would almost anything to undo it.

He finishes packing up, a touch more quickly than before, closes his toolbox, grabs his Pad, and stands with both in his hands. When he turns around, Chatty and Greeny are watching him from less than a dozen feet away and that is far too close for Cazz's comfort.

“So... you're done then?” Chatty asks.

Cazz raises an eyebrow, gestures at the whirring filter, and makes to leave. He doesn't want to get pulled into conservation by curious almost-cadets, new to base. Cazz and people is a bad combination that turns out terribly for everyone.

“Are... are you CA-2205?”

Cazz freezes, because _they're going to go there. Shit._

He spins on his heel to face them, his expression as impassive as possible, and waits for them to say the regular things. So much for little interaction and no introductions. Even obviously brand new to base, despite... no, _because_ of all the sickness incidents happening, they know his name. And if they know his name, they know his story too. It was probably one of the first stories they were told when they arrived, and they probably can't wait to join in on kicking him while he's down.

“Are you CA-2205?” Chatty repeats hesitantly. “The one everybody calls 'Cazz'?”

They're practically radiating morbid curiosity, and Cazz realizes that there's no vicious undertone to their questions or urge to punch at the ache in his chest. They honestly just want to _know._ They don't want to kick, they just want to poke; they want _explanations,_ and Cazz decides that he's in less of a mood for these idiots than he would have been if they were trying to start something.

“Oh me?” he says, speaking for the first time and clearly surprising them. “Oh, no. You're thinking of C-A-two-two-zero-five,” Cazz replies easily, then casually stresses, “ _I'm_ C-A-two-two-zero- _five._ Very different. You must have me mistaken for someone else.”

With a decisive nod of farewell, Cazz walks out the Nutrition Center's squeaky door, enjoying the confusion of the workers behind him even though his chest is aching horribly again. Aching because if they know about him, they know about Sizi too, and Cazz already had to partially explain that too many times to various commanders before they shipped him off for reconditioning.

Cazz hasn't fully explained what happened with Sizi to anyone. Not even Sizi's old gunner team. So there's no chance in hell he's reliving the last thing he wants to remember for a pair of new strangers.

He turns right at the first opportunity, instead of the left that would efficiently get him back to his bunkroom. Left is a short walk through several crowded areas, while right is a long-winding maze of outer corridors that's wonderfully empty save for a few stragglers and the sanitation droids. The choice, to Cazz, is obvious. Wherever there's fewer people, fewer idiots and less sickness, is best.

Cazz spends the first quarter of his walk in a terrible mood, with the ache in his chest burning with every heavy step. Right after the ache first started, he'd thought that reconditioning would fix it. Reconditioning, he'd thought, would fill in the hole that Sizi left when he left. But if anything, reconditioning didn't work at all and just made the ache worse. Cazz is sure that if he tells anyone that, he'll be dismissed on the spot, so now he's hoping it'll go away on it's own.

There's no indication of it fixing itself though, and Cazz knows his hope is idiotic. When have any of his machines or droids ever fixed themselves? But people-maintenance workers and people-mechanics aren't real things, and he probably wouldn't go to them if there were. He's perfectly functional, so nothing actually needs to be fixed. It's all in the head that reconditioning can't fix.

He's going to be sleep-deprived and tired until he's dismissed, apparently.

He should have noticed that something was wrong with Sizi, even if the sickness wasn't widespread and hadn't arrived on their base before then. He should have been able to stop the man before things got so bad, even if there's no cure and Cazz didn't know what was happening at the time. He should have been less naive and less helpless. It's no wonder Sizi's team blames him for what happened when Cazz was right there to _do_ something.

It's no wonder everyone stares and whispers and glares, and that the story is told to every new Stormtrooper that comes to fill the gaps the sickness makes. If Cazz had been faster, less of an idiot, the sickness would never have taken such a fierce hold on their base. And... maybe... Sizi would still be here, people would be less idiotic and awful and poking and punching, and Cazz would still be a battlefield mechanic instead of a rightfully grounded, rightfully demoted, rightfully reconditioned (but not really) outcast.

The sickness would still be out there, though.

Because even though things would have been so much better if Cazz saved his lost comrade, Sizi wasn't the first to catch the sickness. Just as he definitely wasn't the last. Sizi was the first on base, but he wasn't the origin. BZ-0340 wasn't Patient Zero, so the sickness would still be out there.

 _But,_ Cazz thinks through the horrible ache in his chest, _Sizi would still be here._

 

There was another girl the other day.

And she was a girl, not a woman, more cadet than Stormtrooper. She was shunned some by her squadmates, for her pointed teeth, sharp nails, and slit irises that suggested inhuman ancestry, but she was a crack shot and she never left any of her ungrateful teammates behind.

Apparently, not long after Starkiller Base was lost, she started to wander a little too far away from the rest of her patrol. She stood a little too closely to the edges of cliffs, removed her helmet and stared a little too hungrily at the horizon, and responded to her commander's orders a little too slowly. Not enough for her to get shot where she stood, but enough for them to realize in hindsight that the sickness had sneaked into her helmet and was slowly making her lose her mind.

The next day, the girl was gone, and most suppose that she had been dismissed or sent off for reconditioning. But some few, who had to clean up the mess afterwards and were immediately ordered into silence on the pain of instant dismissal, suppose something else entirely.

She joined the Resistance, they whisper despite their orders.

Oh, that poor sick girl.

 

 


End file.
